Uncertainty Principle
by Whyte Star
Summary: Bones gets a lesson in quantum mechanics and Jim has a very bad day. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter I

This is my first foray into _Star Trek _fanfiction and my first fanfic in a long, _long_ time. It has not been beta-read, so I apologize if it's a little rough around the edges. Quick note: my degree is in chemistry, not physics, and my grasp of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle is limited to what my courses have taught me. This isn't meant to be taken as a discourse on quantum mechanics and you won't need to know much about it other than what is written in the fic. That being said, it's a fic that couldn't decide whether to be funny or dramatic, so it's a little bit of both. It started out being Kirk-centered but then Bones went and hijacked it.

Rating is for language.

**UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE**

**CHAPTER I**

McCoy is fairly certain that there is some regulation out there somewhere forbidding captains from participating in away missions—or there _should be,_ given that his captain attracts dangerous situations with an inexplicable degree of regularity.

This was supposed to be simple—Jim was taking young Chekov for one of the latter's few away missions on a planet that, according to their sensors, was completely devoid of life. _Then again,_ McCoy thinks wryly,_ this is Jim we're talking about here. He could turn breathing into something dangerous._

Sardonic eyes flick around the small area and the doctor's brow is creased in a disapproving manner. Everything in his body language speaks, _'Why am I not surprised?' _

"What seems to be the problem?"

There are three people in the transporter room: himself, Mr. Scott, and the Vulcan. Spock is standing before the transporter, staring at it in that particular way of his which McCoy is hesitant to label 'inquisitive'. The chief engineer, McCoy notices, is making a point not to look anywhere in his direction. McCoy can hear him replying haughtily to the Vulcan's accusations, insisting that yes, he followed transporter protocol correctly. No, he did not enter the coordinates incorrectly. Yes, he was perfectly sure that the captain was not floating lifeless in the vacuum of space . . .

McCoy's eyes narrow at this last comment. Just as he is going to voice his question again, Spock ceases his interrogation of the chief engineer and turns toward him. Not that McCoy can say for certain, but he thinks he can detect a modicum of a frown on the otherwise stoic expression.

"It appears there has been a problem with the transporter, doctor. There has been no response from ensign Chekov or the captain."

It takes McCoy a moment before his brain absorbs the implications of this statement. At first he is incredulous. "Excuse me?"

The Vulcan stares, obviously with no intention of repeating himself. His eyes travel slowly, deliberately, to the chief engineer so desperately attempting to remain invisible in the corner. "Mr. Scott?" he offers.

"Aye, ah..." Scott is very careful in choosing his words. "It was a very routine transport, but we received word from the bridge that they er... can not reestablish communication with the captain."

The doctor drags a heavy breath. "Meaning?"

"It's possible, though _highly unlikely,"_ Scott directs the latter portion of this statement to Spock, "that something happened to them during transport."

McCoy laughs uneasily. His stomach does a very unnerving flip-flop as his mind wanders to places he never wishes it to go. He calls it back with a vigorous shake of his head. There are some aspects of this technology that he swears will haunt him in his dreams. He regards the chief engineer with narrowed eyes. "You're telling me that Jim might be _lost_ out there as a bunch of friggin' _molecules?"_

Scott coughs. "Well, I wouldn't put it _quite_ that way..."

McCoy's shoulders stoop and he shakes his head, chin nearly against his chest. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks, rhetorically, as one hand reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"As the chief medical officer, it is pertinent that you are informed as to the status of every member of the crew, especially in a situation as unusual as this."

"I _know that,_ commander," McCoy replies weakly in Spock's direction. "But dammit man, I'm a doctor, not a . . ." he is suddenly at a loss for a competent noun and shakes his head wearily. "I can't put people's _molecules_ back together!"

Scott is unsuccessful in hiding his grimace. He pretends to busy himself with data streaming on the screen before him, but there is nothing useful to be seen.

McCoy tries to ignore it, but is suddenly overwhelmed with concern. Jim Kirk, his captain, his _friend... _he can mend broken bones, can staunch a bleeding wound, can cope with an innumerable amount of diseases, but he can not fix _this._ If there truly was an accident during beaming and there were now a million Jim molecules scattered throughout the vacuum of space—McCoy swallows hard, tries not to shiver.

_Damn it,_ he sneers in his head, _don't these things have safety regulations?_

Spock turns slowly to the engineer and opens his mouth to speak. If he has made a brilliant deduction it does not show on his face. "Mr. Scott," he speaks with no hint of question.

"Aye, commander?"

"Are you certain that the Heisenberg compensator is functioning properly?"

Scott's face twists in a manner that suggests that he sure to hell hopes it is. "The readouts are normal, but I suppose I can check it manually."

"Do that, Mr. Scott."

McCoy pays little attention as the engineer scuffles toward the transporter and begins to make a plethora of noise. Spock steps back to give the engineer room to work and stands perfectly straight, arms clasped behind his back, watching with interest. Or perhaps just watching. McCoy can never tell the difference.

There is a metallic clang. Scott curses, apologizes to no one in particular, and continues.

McCoy visibly flinches at the sound and turns his eyes away from the infernal machine. "What the hell is he doing?" he offers vaguely in Spock's direction.

"The Heisenberg compensator is an essential component of the transporter. It assures that the uncertainty relation does not interfere with the energy particles during the beaming process. Mr. Scott is confirming that the component is functioning as it should."

McCoy is only mildly aware of the uncertainty principle. It is something that only half-stuck with him through the academy. Position and momentum of particles, something like that. Something far too nightmare-inducing for him to want to know any more intimately. He knew that there was something in the transporter that compensated for this uncertainty so that all your parts ended up in the correct places at the other end—not that he trusted that transporter as far as he could throw it, that is. Again, images of Jim's particles floating dissociated in space flash behind his eyes. McCoy instantly regrets asking the question and feels his skin crawl.

It takes the doctor a moment to notice that the Vulcan's unnervingly lucid eyes are fixed on him.

"Yeah?" he snaps somewhat irritably.

"You appear troubled, doctor."

"You're talking about something that, medically, I can't fix. It's more than a little unnerving, alright?"

"There is little cause for concern," Spock assures him. "If the Heisenberg compensator is functioning properly there is no other logical reason for the transporter to have failed."

McCoy guffaws. Logical. _Like there's something logical about having yourself broken down to itty bitty bits and flung across the universe._

"What do you propose _then,_ commander?" McCoy can not hide the ice in his words.

The Vulcan abruptly turns his attention to Scott as the chief engineer returns to their line of vision. One of his eyebrows is cocked inquisitively. Spock mirrors his expression, though on the Vulcan it seems taunting, almost menacing.

"It's working fine, sir." Scott returns to his station and drags his fingers across more lines of information. "I'll be damned if I know what happened."

Spock is about to reply when a transmission arrives from the bridge. It is Sulu, his voice tense. He pauses for a breathless moment. "We have contact with Chekov, sir."

* * *

The most surprising thing Pavel Chekov encounters when his body becomes solid again is that one foot is not where it should be. He dangles for a fraction of a second over a sheer drop of serrated stone before throwing his weight sideways with a groan of surprise. The action saves him from a fall and he clings to the edge of the cliff, scratches and drags himself up. He remains there on his knees, momentarily exhausted for a moment. After a few breaths he cranes his head about, searching for his captain. The landscape around him is completely deserted.

He pauses to think, pulls out his communicator. In a moment he is speaking with Lieutenant Sulu, who sounds absolutely relieved to hear from him and tells him as such. He can't help but return the sentiment with an unseen smile. After a minute the first officer is speaking back to him and Chekov rattles off an excited series of explanations before something hot and sticky and very _large_ begins breathing somewhere over his shoulder. . .

* * *

"What has happened, ensign?"

Chekov laughs, but it is a fearful one, weak and thready. "Something has happened with the transporter. I have no idea where I am, commander." He takes a hasty breath. "Ah—it is on the planet, I think, sir! But... something did not go right." He adds this last sentence after a careful choosing of words.

"And the captain?"

Chekov hesitates as if startled. "I—I do not know, sir."

McCoy looks over at Spock, completely mute. If the Vulcan is effected by this disastrous news, he shows nothing of it outwardly aside from a gentle tilt of his head.

"Ensign—"

Spock is cut short as something that is not Chekov's voice suddenly resounds through the line. It is deep and guttural and the sound of heavy footsteps follows it almost imperceptibly. Chekov makes a startled sound and begins to curse vividly in Russian before the communication line goes dead.

It takes McCoy a startled moment to adjust to the silence. His head falls against his open palm in a mixture of anxiety and incomprehension. First his captain is—possibly, probably—torn apart by the transporter, and now the kid is . . . he stops himself before his flabbergasted brain can conjure any more horrible ideas. He feels the inexorable need to groan, perhaps grab a satisfying beverage of the alcoholic variety to forget about the horrors his mind has hence his duty as a doctor will allow him no solace, and he is following Spock from the bridge before his brain even knows what his feet are doing.

* * *

_Flat ground, my ass._

However, considering his chief engineer's history with the transporter, Kirk is not surprised. At least he did not end up in the midsts of hostile Romulans. Scott had insisted that the transporter would place them on flat ground; instead, Kirk finds himself dangling precariously on the end of a _damn cliff. _Unfortunately, the law of gravitational attraction is universal everywhere, and as high as James T. Kirk may think of himself, he can not best a law of nature. The precarious ground collapses beneath him and he soon becomes more intimately acquainted with the local scenery than he originally intended.

As the last debris of his fall—which is a modest drop of at least ten feet—scatters around him, he curses and rubs at his shoulder. Nothing broken but his pride. He makes a mental note to have several words with Scotty after this. None of them are particularly friendly.

He searches about the chaos for his communicator, and his stomach hardens as he can not find it. He curses again, flings rocks away in his haste. Nothing comes to him until he finds a telltale scattering of debris. He rolls away a particularly large stone—_just my damn luck_, he thinks—and reveals the remains of his communicator, now reduced to innumerable shiny pieces.

Gingerly he gathers the mangled pieces and attempts to connect them together in his hands, but the communicator is lifeless. He scoffs and throws the pieces away.

* * *

McCoy's jaw drops wide at Spock's suggestion as the Vulcan stands before the transporter, a serious expression on his face. Then again, Spock always looks serious. But he can't possibly be serious about _this._

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?" he snaps, flinging his arms wide. "The damn thing _swallowed _our captain, and you want to use it to go _look for him?!"_

"It is the fastest way to arrive at the captain's suspected location."

McCoy can do nothing but stare. He guffaws twice. "This thing could put us three planets over with our heads on each other's bodies, for crying out loud!"

"That's highly unlikely, sir," Scott mutters behind him, a tinge of pain in his voice. "I checked every part of the transporter, nothing is out of place. If anything's to blame, it's something on the planet."

Again, half-maniacal laughter escapes the doctor's throat. _These people are all insane._

"Doctor, you do realize that the captain's life could be in jeopardy? And the ensign's as well?"

Leave it to that pointy-eared bastard. . .

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean I like this idea."

"It is not logical that you--"

"Don't even try it," McCoy snaps. He holds up one hand in a mollifying gesture in response to the Vulcan's very serious eyebrow. "I swear that if this thing doesn't put me right where it's supposed to I'll haunt you from my grave, Mr. Scott."

There is a hesitant reply from behind him and McCoy can not detect the veiled laughter. "Aye, sir."

Defeated, McCoy turns his eyes to the ceiling. "You owe me _big time _for this, Jim," he mutters under his breath before staggering up to join Spock on the transporter with a medical kit in hand. The Vulcan snaps the word "energize" and McCoy visibly flinches as the effervescent white light surrounds him.

* * *

Kirk's eyes snap to the top of the landscape when he hears a distinct string of words in Russian. He throws himself against the face of the cliff beside him and begins to climb when Chekov's horrified face is suddenly looming above him. The ensign's eyes are as wide as saucers; he looks like he might lose the contents of his stomach all over the top of Kirk's head.

"Chekov!"

"Oh, captain!" Chekov does not have time to show his relief. "There is--" suddenly the Russian boy is gone, glancing quickly over his shoulder and rolling away from something. Kirk sees a flash of very large, serrated claws that grasp at the edge of the earth before scrabbling away, sending a fresh hail of stones down toward him.

_Shit._

"Chekov! Get over here!" Kirk bellows, continuing to drag himself up the cliffside.

"No, нет, нет!... I mean, yes, captain... ay!"

Kirk breaches the plane at the top of the cliff to see Chekov frozen in place about ten steps from his vantage point, locked in the gaze of something large and vaguely reptilian. The creature has obviously just taken a strike at the ensign, for its claws are buried several inches into the ground merely inches from Chekov's feet. A blue-black tongue lolls anticipatively from behind dangerous-looking teeth. The creature seems fixated on Chekov and the ensign is paralyzed in its shadow.

Kirk grips the fragile earth, braces his feet. He slings his phaser toward the creature, takes aim, and fires. The strike seems to bounce off the creature's flank, not enough to hurt it but more than enough to draw its attention. Kirk fires again and the creature snaps its head toward him, regarding him with eerily intelligent yellow eyes. It drags its claws free of the earth with an impact that knocks Chekov from his feet. Its attention is suddenly completely frozen on Kirk.

Kirk squeezes off another shot, taunting the creature toward him. "Hey, ugly!"

The creature responds to his challenge.

Kirk tosses his phaser toward Chekov. It spins in the dirt and comes to rest several feet from the startled ensign.

"Stay here, Chekov, and that's an order!" Kirk bellows before he vanishes beneath the lip of the cliff, churning up dust as he slides down. The creature clears the space between them with two heaving steps and pursues him.

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter II

McCoy may have hijacked Chapter I, but Chekov absolutely took over this one. Enjoy!

**CHAPTER II**

McCoy nearly collapses to his knees as he finds his feet on solid ground. He wills his vision to stop its incessant spinning and heaves a gigantic breath in a moment of incomprehensible relief.

"The transporter seems undamaged," Spock remarks beside him.

McCoy replies with a nerve-wracked laugh. He waves Spock's flat gaze away with one hand. "We've gotta find Jim."

"These are the coordinates obtained from the ensign's communicator before the incident."

McCoy's gaze wanders for a moment. The monotonous red-orange landscape plays tricks with his eyes but he can detect something in the distance. "Over there," he barks in Spock's direction.

The Vulcan ignores McCoy for the simple fact that he has already made several strides away from the doctor toward a very familiar shape in gold and black.

The two find Ensign Chekov with legs akimbo. He has a paranoid look on his young face. The ensign is covered in red-orange dirt, though his face is perhaps a shade paler than normal. He jumps visibly when he sees his comrades looming over him and struggles frantically to his feet.

"I found him, sir! I found him!" he exclaims as he grapples at McCoy's arms and shakes them.

McCoy regards the enthusiastic reaction with quite the reverse sentiment in his expression. "Calm down, Chekov." He gingerly extracts himself from the Russian's vigorous grip, which the latter is reluctant to rescind. "You mean the captain?"

"The captain, sir."

McCoy draws in a deep breath and releases it. "Was he in one piece, kid?"

The Russian tilts his head, confusion in his eyes. He is lost in thought for a moment before speaking seriously: "I think so, but I am afraid he might not be for long, sir . . ."

McCoy snorts in frustration and throws his arms up in desperation. "What—"

"Please inform me as to the events that transpired here, ensign," Spock offers laconically.

Chekov draws a deep breath. "The transporter nearly dropped me off the edge of this cliff, sir!" he points confidently to the infamous drop looming dangerously in the distance. "I saw the Captain go over the edge! I tried to go after him but could not, sir!"

"And what happened to the captain, ensign?"

"He was chased away by a giant lizard, sir!" The young ensign looks between the doctor and the Vulcan and hastily decides to clarify. "I do not know what it was, sir. I tried to go after him but it tried to eat me." He hastily adds: "the captain ordered me to stay here and . . . took the thing away, sir."

McCoy inwardly flinches, imagining the numerous unhealthy ways that Jim being chased by a giant lizard could end. "Sounds just like Jim," he snaps. He sees the phaser next to the young ensign. It looks wildly out of place beside him. "Is that the captain's?"

"He threw it at me to defend myself before he ran off, sir."

McCoy cannot stop the audible groan that escapes his lips. _Jim, you idiot._

In response to the silence Chekov attempts to dust off his uniform but realizes almost sheepishly that the motion is useless. Instead he gathers the captain's abandoned phaser, regards it gingerly, and stows it away at the belt of his uniform.

"Can you walk, kid?" McCoy asks.

"Aye, sir. I am not hurt."

"Which way did the... lizard... thing...?"

"It went west, sir."

"Lead the way, ensign."

* * *

Kirk trips and curses, drags himself to his feet and takes off running again. He inwardly regrets ever having entertained the notion that he could outrun something that takes one leaping stride for every five of his. For something so ponderously large it moves quickly, menacingly. His pursuer gives a low, throaty growl. Kirk glances over his shoulder for an instant, sees the looming yellow eyes. With a haggard gasp he turns back and tries to hasten his pace.

The ground suddenly arches up into a looming cliff to his left. Kirk does not take a moment to think and jumps against it; the creature is so close he can smell its breath but he begins to climb anyway. The alien slams into the wall of stone with a force that nearly tears Kirk from the face. It rears up clumsily on its back legs and reaches a serrated claw in his direction. It catches on his leg and rips; an unbelievable sensation blossoms from just below Kirk's knee and he chokes down a groan of pain. But still he climbs. _I'll be damned if I let this thing eat me,_ he thinks.

A long tongue lashes out and licks tentatively at his wounded leg. Kirk freezes out of instinct. The tongue swipes over his wound again and an uncontrollable shiver courses through him. The feeling is just so damn _unnatural._

The creature sits back on its haunches and flicks its tongue almost methodically. It makes a series of disgusted sounds and tosses its head. Completely forgetting Kirk it turns and shuffles away, its meal obviously spoiled.

"Well, same to you, asshole!" Kirk calls after it in with an air of wounded satisfaction.

He clings to the face of the rock for a moment more, his eyes vigilant. Satisfied that he is alone he makes a move to descend, but the pressure on his injured leg causes his head to spin. He tries to focus his whirling vision but quickly loses purchase and drags down the slope and to the ground with a resounding calamity. His head feels incredibly fuzzy, his entire body is so heavy, and _damn, this planet is hot. _He reaches down to the wound, alarmed at the presence of blood. The last thing Jim Kirk thinks is _my leg shouldn't hurt this much,_ before he prods at the wound with one finger and is instantly unconscious.

* * *

Something large is loping toward them in the distance, quadrupedal and vaguely reptilian in appearance. McCoy can only think of it as the bastard child of a lizard and something almost mammalian, with the front end of the former and the back end of the latter. He could not afford much more investigation, however, because said creature was charging haplessly in their direction, churning up dust.

Chekov makes a surprised sound at McCoy's shoulder.

"Is that the creature, ensign?" asks Spock.

"Aye, sir."

"No sign of Jim," McCoy offers, whether hopeful or disappointed he is not sure.

The creature comes to a full stop as it spies the three men, seemingly confused. Its yellow eyes flick back and forth and settle on Chekov. It makes a throated sound of pleasure—or of recognition.

McCoy's eyes freeze in horror on a large clawed foreleg suddenly sweeping in their direction . . .

_Oh, shit._

The thing throws itself toward Chekov and scatters the three men. It smothers the ensign with a monumental roar that splatters saliva across his face. A hundred possible tactical options flash through the young Russian's mind in an instant. None are helpful to the situation, save one: the creature's tongue hangs ponderously and invitingly between its horrendous teeth. For reasons Chekov does not take time to contemplate, he reaches out and grabs hold of the tongue, leans all his weight against the earth, and pulls.

The creature rears back on its hind legs with a shriek of surprise. Still firmly attached to the tongue—which is leathery, sticky, and warm—Chekov is flung about as the beast jerks its head hither and yon with series of infuriated, guttural sounds.

Momentum slams the ensign against creature's exaggerated neck. Pain shoots across his side as he encounters scaled skin as hard as diamond. His grip on the tongue slips and he slides, clinging to the rigid, scaled hide. One hand grapples at a raised ridge of skin that runs along the creature's backbone, another grabs loosely somewhere behind the eye. The creature turns its head, attempts to snap at Chekov, but the ensign uses the creature's momentum to swing one of his legs up and over. After a breathless moment of weightlessness Chekov is straddling the creature's neck just behind its head, clinging furiously to the taught skin. He knows his grip will not last long . . .

This entire exchange occurs in only a few precious seconds. Spock has his weapon focused on the reeling creature, but hesitates to attempt an attack with the ensign in such close proximity to his target.

The creature is writhing in absolute irritation. It attempts to claw at the ensign but can not achieve the necessary angle to reach him. It pauses its thrashing, exhausted. The one thought burning in Chekov's mind takes over. He releases his white-knuckled grip and searches at his belt, uttering a prodigious cry when he finds the phaser still tucked away there. It feels enormous and foreign in his hands. He recalls somewhere in Earth's history about the weak points of certain creatures . . .

Fear does not give him time to hesitate. He scrambles closer to the creature's head, balances the nose of the phaser against the exposed yellow eye, and pulls the trigger.

The close proximity of the blast assures that the shot hits home. The creature attempts a horrified shriek but is cut short; a cloud of copper-colored innards bursts forth from its destroyed eye socket and straight into the face of Pavel Chekov. The impact throws his balance; the creature flings its head in desperation and the ensign is thrown clear. He braces himself for impact and rolls several times across the dirt, coming to rest on his side with a surprised cry.

The alien's body is buckling in spasms of pain. Though the blast may not have been enough to kill it, its agony is so strong that the three men have been completely forgotten. It turns and stumbles away, leaving a trail of putrid, copper-colored fluid in its wake. Spock watches as it retreats. McCoy turns his attention to the unfortunate hero of this exchange and he whirls on his heel to regard the ensign.

Chekov has manged to sit upright. He is covered from his head to his waist in the foul blood from the alien—in close proximity McCoy can see that it is thick, slimy, and clings to every part of the ensign with extreme tenacity.

As the doctor stares down at him, Chekov can not discern whether the look in the older man's eyes is meant to convey irritation or muted relief. The young ensign attempts a smile, but the alien blood dripping down his face does little for the childish expression.

"That was a... stupid thing to do, kid."

"Understood, sir." Chekov wipes away a coagulated mess falling into his eyes with his palm and shakes his hand vigorously to remove the substance. His expression is oddly self-satisfied. "But I am tired of something trying to eat me, today... sir."

McCoy thinks of offering a hand to the ensign, but thinks otherwise as the gleam of copper-colored alien bits glares back at him. He merely nods in mute understanding.

"The creature came from behind that ridge." Spock has holstered his phaser and is motioning with his eyes in the direction of land where a craggy outcropping of rock rises sharply, creating yet another cliff in the fashion that seems so prominent on this planet. "If this is indeed the same creature that accosted the ensign upon arrival, it would be logical to assume that Jim is in that direction."

Chekov drags himself to his feet and McCoy watches him with an expert's eye. Astoundingly, there are no open wounds on the young ensign, though his many scuffles in the dirt have turned his normally marble-colored skin an interesting shade of orange and the alien's innards have plastered his hair to his head with copper-colored gelatinous ooze. There is the beginning of a bruise, already a deep red, along the ensign's rounded cheek.

"Are you okay, ensign?"

The young man nods to the doctor, but McCoy can detect the stiffness of his movements. "I am fine for the moment, sir." Chekov replies. "But I would appreciate a shower, soon, if possible."

McCoy's fingers trace a path along the ensign's back, slowly turning the younger man in the direction of their first officer. The Vulcan has already begun a path toward the looming tower of rock. McCoy urges Chekov forward and the two hasten to join him.

* * *

Harsh light is beating down on his face and Jim turns his head away from it, groaning. The nausea is incredible but he fights it down with rigid gasps of air. He's covered in dirt and grime and lizard saliva—the smell of the latter is enough to make him want to empty his stomach again. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and pulls it back sluggishly; the heat radiating from his skin is astounding, yet he feels so cold that a sudden shiver threatens to tear his bones apart from one another.

_Fantastic._ The lizard did something to him. Just his luck.

His mind wanders as he stares pitifully at the sky, clenching his rattling teeth against the spasmodic shivers. Thoughts that appear into the forefront of his brain and are immediately chased away before he can fully acknowledge them. Hours . . . days . . . his conception of time has suddenly become completely elastic and he has not the strength left in his mind to care. He remains in this stasis until, through the haze, something slams into the forefront of his brain with the force of a torpedo.

Pavel Chekov.

_Damn._

He rolls himself prone, pushes onto his hands and knees. Instantly he collapses and drops his forehead against the dusty earth, breathes sharply through his teeth. The pain in his leg is excruciating. He curses at the offending appendage and, using the stone cliff for support, drags himself onto one knee. After an effort that seems monumental in its scope he is able to clamor onto his good leg, utterly exhausted. He tests his weight on the injured leg and nearly drops to his knees again, gripping the wall of stone frantically as he breaks into a series of winded coughs. He comes to realize that walking will be near impossible after this, but the other side of his consciousness argues that he can not abandon the ensign. The protection of his crew was his responsibility as captain, leg be damned. He had to go back for him.

Kirk turns his head and spits out the taste of bile at the back of his throat. He pushes away from the wall and tries to steady himself on his feet, but this is nigh impossible. He gently moves his injured leg forward and is disconcerted to discover that it feels like it is made of stone. Kirk steels himself, grits his teeth against the agony he knows will come, and steps forward with his other leg. He lets loose a string of colorful language he is glad no other soul is around to hear, but counts the endeavor a success. He intrepidly manages another step, another round of voracious curses. It is unbelievable labor; already sweat drains down into his eyes. Kirk can not divert his attention to think about the humor of the situation, but his limp makes him look like a dead man reanimated to walk upright and manages to be both frightening and humorous in kind.

He is stumbling in the direction from where he came and manages his lurching pace for all of twenty steps. As he places his injured leg forward for the twenty-first it all but collapses underneath him, completely dead and numb. Kirk lurches to his side and clings to the sheer rock face and drags his nails deep into it to support himself. He is determined to go on, but his entire body is in complete paralysis. There he remains, balanced on his good leg, leaning against the rock face. A weighty sigh escapes his throat, another bone-rattling shiver follows, and his vision swirls until the world around him becomes imperceptible.

_To Be Continued._


	3. Chapter III

This fic was supposed to be three chapters, but my muse went crazy on Scotty, so he gets a whole chapter to himself after this.

Also, let's play a game of "Find the TOS reference!" Kudos to you if you can. :-)

**CHAPTER III**

Someone is calling his name. That someone sounds suspiciously like Bones. Kirk groans inwardly, not relishing the idea of that inevitable torture that follows the doctor like the plague, despite the fact that his leg feels like it might fall off, and he does not understand how someone can be so hot and so cold at the same time, and he's having trouble seeing things, and. . .

His wandering thoughts suddenly coalesce for a moment.

_What the hell is Bones doing here?_

He realizes he has been leaning in a daze against the cliff face and it is only by virtue of his vice-like grip on the stone that he has been able to stand upright. He cranes his neck to look in the direction of the voice and finds the doctor much closer than he expected. Their heads nearly collide.

Kirk flinches out of instinct and the normally minute movement nearly tips him over on his unsteady feet. A firm hand on his back is all that saves him. He turns his head slowly and he sees Spock supporting his entire body weight with one hand, looking entirely unperturbed.

McCoy already has the medical tricorder out and is making quick work of the unfortunate captain. Kirk tries several times to snag to offending machine from the doctor's hands but is unsuccessful, clutching hilariously at empty air.

McCoy mutters at Kirk, motioning for him to keep still. "Good God, man, what did you do _this time?"_

The last member of the party that Kirk identifies, standing silently next to McCoy, is Pavel Chekov. Kirk takes one look at the ensign and begins to laugh, low and thready. In his slightly delusional state he can't help but feel endeared to the slightly dirty—but obviously alive—Russian navigator.

"Chekov! The hell happened to you?"

"You can thank him later him for chasing away that giant alien that you obviously couldn't handle," McCoy offers bitterly, batting Kirk's interfering hand away to get a closer inspection with his tricorder.

The insult is obviously lost on Kirk. He is staring at Chekov, eyes wide. "You killed it?"

The ensign shakes his head. ". . . No, captain. But it will not be giving us any more trouble, sir."

Kirk grins wide, laughs drunkenly. "Good job, Chekov! That's a story to tell the ladies."

The ensign can't help but beam beneath the layers of dirt and grime. "I will remember that, sir."

Kirk reaches out and claps Chekov on the shoulder. Only Spock's steady hand, now gripping his shoulder, keeps him from pitching forward onto the dirt.

"How'd you enjoy this away mission?" He tries unsuccessfully to disguise a heavy breath. "Pretty exciting?"

Chekov bristles. He can not help but look slightly offended. "I would appreciate, Captain Kirk, if you would consider choosing someone else for your next away team."

Kirk's face falls. "Aw, Chekov. I'm hurt." He senses McCoy coming with the hypospray before the doctor has even removed it from the medpack. "Get that thing the _hell _away from me, Bones."

McCoy ignores the sentiment. "How many times I have told you not to be such an infant, Jim?"

"It's not _that_ bad!"

McCoy stares at Kirk's face. His eyes flick down to the open wound seeping blood in a sizable pool around the captain's ankle and travel back up again. "I bet, Jim. Could've fooled me."

"Shut up, Bones."

"Spock?"

Kirk had nearly forgotten about the Vulcan acting as his support until a very firm hand grips the side of his head and pulls it back, exposing his neck. McCoy jabs the hypospray there with Vulcan-like reflexes and Kirk finds himself cursing at the doctor before he even has a chance to react otherwise.

"You're an ass, Bones."

"I know."

Kirk looks between Bones and Spock and Chekov and his body and brain seem to make a concurrent decision. His legs fold underneath him and he falls like a stone, not into the waiting arms of the doctor but into and _nearly on top of_ the completely startled Pavel Chekov. Two fall as one before McCoy can do anything and Kirk's dead weight nearly smothers the unfortunate ensign.

Spock might—just might—have a slight smile on the corners of his lips as he pulls out his communicator, but McCoy is too concerned with Kirk to notice.

"Spock to _Enterprise. _We have located the captain and ensign Chekov. Request to transport four. Have a medical team waiting at arrival."

"Don't do anything funny this time, Mr. Scott!" McCoy can't help but hear himself scream in Spock's direction. It is a reaction that has become almost automatic, now.

"Aye, you bet your arse—er, sir."

* * *

Spock examines the doctor in silence. McCoy is busing himself with the captain, his eyes focused on a list of readouts, and if he knows of the Vulcan's presence in sickbay he has yet to acknowledge it. Spock watches the doctor prepare a hypospray and deliver it without pause and takes note of the fact that the captain does not stir; he is as still has he was two days ago. On the normally robust captain such a stasis is disconcerting.

McCoy turns away from Kirk to attend to something across the room when his attention finally falls on the Vulcan. He does not seem surprised, though there is a slight mask of irritation on his features.

"Commander."

"I am inquiring as to the status of the captain."

"Of course you are." McCoy glances over one shoulder at said patient. "There has been no change."

"You are positive this antitoxin is working as it should?"

McCoy swallows the insult that his tongue wishes it could speak and forces himself to give a more medial response. "Yes, I'm sure. That was a pretty big lizard that gave him quite a dose of whatever the hell it was. It's a lot for any human to take. Even for Jim."

"Do you have an estimate for his recovery?"

"You know how Jim is."

Spock raises an eyebrow.

"He'll be back to get on your nerves soon enough."

The Vulcan continues to stare. "Also," he says, "the bridge is in need of its navigator."

Spock gestures with his eyes to the bed opposite Kirk's.

"In due time," McCoy replies curtly.

Spock nods. "I will return to the bridge, doctor. Please inform me of any changes."

"Will do, commander. You've got your job to do, and I have mine." McCoy gestures in confirmation with his free hand, not looking up from the data he is reading. He is prepared for the Vulcan to say something about the insubordination but is greeted only with a closing door. McCoy's eyes snap up to find the room deserted. He offers himself a private, inward smile. _Finally got the last word,_ he thinks triumphantly.

McCoy pulls his attention away from the door and notices the eyes of his other patient locked on him from across the room. Chekov looks like he has aged ten years, but his eyes are unnaturally bright with fever. His face is dark with a bruise that has not even begun to fade. It stands out vigorously against his pale skin, which is several shades lighter in his disheveled state.

"How are you feeling, Chekov?"

"Not so good, sir. Worse than before, sir."

"That's to be expected. I gave you some antitoxin as a precaution. It is normal for you to get the symptoms."

Chekov sighs. To McCoy it looks absolutely pathetic.

"Don't worry, you'll be out of here in a day or so."

The prospect seems to cheer the young ensign somewhat. "How is Captain Kirk?"

"He'll make it."

Chekov intends to continue the conversation, but there is such a throbbing pain in his head. He massages at his temple and groans.

"Get some rest, Chekov."

The ensign nods appreciatively. The room falls silent as the doctor returns to his work elsewhere, and in a few minutes Chekov feels his eyes go heavy in spite of himself.

* * *

He vaguely feels a light dusting of sensation on the side of his neck. Something cold settles there until he feels the unmistakable jolt as a hypospray buries itself in his jugular. He groans and jerks his head away.

"Get away from me with that friggin' hypo," he attempts to say, but his tongue does not want to function and it comes out as a garbled and incoherent mess of words.

"Oh, Jim. Glad to see you're awake."

McCoy waits the requisite time as Kirk tries to get his tongue to work again. His eyes are focused on the readouts from Kirk's chart, eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

"What the hell did you do to me, Bones?" Kirk manages after several failed attempts.

"Saved your damn life. Be a little more grateful."

Kirk tries to sit up but McCoy places a very firm hand against his breastbone. "No."

"What the hell?"

"You just added 'giant alien lizard wrangler' to your list of accomplishments. I don't want you getting up any time soon."

"'Giant alien lizard wrangler'," Kirk repeats. "Hey, I like the sound of that."

"Shut up and don't get any more ideas."

Suddenly Kirk attempts to rise again. There is a wild look in his eyes. "Chekov?"

"For the last _damn time_ Jim," McCoy snaps. "The kid's fine. I released him two days ago."

"Two days? But, Bones. . .?"

"You were out for almost four days, Jim."

"Because of you."

McCoy returns the expression with his own acrimonious one. "Yes, because of me, and if you don't shut your mouth I'll put you back that way for another week."

Kirk regards McCoy with daggers in his eyes as he notices another hypospray hovering dangerously nearby. "What's with all the damn hypos?"

"The alien's saliva acted as some sort of toxin. I've had to give you injections every six hours to counteract it."

"And this one?"

There is no expression on McCoy's face as he nonchalantly delivers the jab to the side of Kirk's neck. Kirk curses at him, decides that the pain in his neck is worse than anything a stupid alien lizard could have done to him.

"Sedative."

"Bones, what the hell . . .?" the sedative takes over before he can finish his retort.

_To Be Continued._


	4. Chapter IV

Here is the end of it. What started as a simple scene turned into . . . this. I have discovered that Mr. Scott is just amazing to write. Like Bones and Chekov before him, he hijacked this scene. I am very pleased with the way it turned out.

(The anonymous review was correct, by the way. Bones "finally getting the last word" is from the episode "Journey to Babel.")

As some of your may have noticed, I do not normally phonetically write out accents (hence why Chekov does not say "Keptin"). However, I decided to interject a little bit of Scottish brogue here to add a bit more flavor to the scene.

Also, I am hoping to being a rather ambitious _Star Trek_ fanfiction project, and am in serious need of a beta. Please use my e-mail through this site or contact me through my homepage if you would be interested. :-)

Thank you for reading and enjoy!

**CHAPTER IV**

Scott is grateful that the recreation room is absolutely deserted this late into the evening. He glances around to be absolutely certain they are alone and withdraws a moderately sized silver flask, opens it, and inhales the glorious scent of scotch. He takes a pull, relaxes limply against the chair, sighs in satisfaction. Glancing over to the seat at his left, he passes the flask into the waiting hands of Pavel Chekov.

The ensign examines the flask doubtfully.

"Don't start that," Scott barks at him. "No man can turn down a beautiful whisky."

"But sir, in Russia . . ."

"'In Russia,' nothing! Now you enjoy it." He offers his best hurt expression. "Don't make me drink by m'self, eh?"

Chekov raises the flask to his lips slowly with the expression of a child about to be dosed a particularly vile medication. He takes a minute sip, decides that the experience is not as disastrous as he was expecting, enjoys a longer drink.

"Atta boy," Scott responds. He holds his hand out expectantly and the ensign deposits the flask there. The young man's cheeks are pink from his effort.

"I've been thinking," Scott offers after another drink and a moment's silence.

"I would not suggest thinking while you are drinking, sir." Chekov catches himself, holds up a hand. "At least not about difficult things, sir!"

Scott throws his free arm in exasperation. "Ah, pish! I'll make an exception for this one." He pauses, regards the flask in his hands with a loving expression, downs another slug. "Y'know, I have a feeling I'm cursed."

Chekov raises an eyebrow. "How can you be cursed, sir?"

"I dinnae ken where I keep going wrong . . ."

Chekov narrows his expression, attempting to translate the slightly slurred brogue speech. "Mr. Scott?"

Scott takes another drink and passes the flask excitedly to Chekov. "Ye see, there was this beagle." He shoulders slump. "I really wish I knew where that damn dog went."

Chekov suddenly realizes he may be in a little over his head, and consoles himself with a generous portion of scotch.

"Friggin' relativistic mechanics," Scott continues on his soliloquy. "Told me they couldn't find the captain and first thought on my mind is spending another damn penance on some God-forsaken planet somewhere. "

Scott reaches for the bottle and Chekov moves it just out of the older man's reach. Ignoring the engineer's disgruntled sounds, Chekov regards him seriously.

"Relativistic mechanics? Sir, you thought--?"

"Stop it!" Scott all but jabs his fingers into his ears.

Chekov attempts to raise an eyebrow. "Whatever it is, I think you are overreacting, sir."

"Well, I'll be damned."

The captain's voice has a shocking effect on the engineer and the ensign. Scott slips from his chair in surprise and catches himself on his hands and knees. Chekov is on his feet and attempts to stand at attention with the bottle of scotch still in his hand. The amber-colored liquid splashes onto the floor and he raises his arm instinctively; Scott makes a terrified, injured sound beneath him. Chekov resolves himself to looking as innocent as possible, which is difficult for a seventeen year-old with a half-empty flask of alcohol in one hand.

"Captain," he offers in his most level voice. He hnads the flask down to Scott as unobtrusively as possible.

Kirk gives a half-bemused, half-knowing smile. His eyes trace a path to an open chair nearest to the two and he limps his way over to it. He is leaning heavily against a crutch as he moves, but even the with the implement his progress is slow and painful.

"You are supposed to be in medical bay, captain?" Chekov offers, halfway between a question and a statement.

Kirk deposits himself in the chair and his limbs fall limp, exhausted. The crutch clatters to the ground. "I'm losing my mind down there. Figured I'd go for a walk." There is an exhausted edge to his words, great gasps of breath between his sentences.

Chekov watches his captain carefully. Kirk's face is pale, his expression drawn tight; the man is obviously in much more pain than he claims outwardly. There is a thick patina of sweat on his face, with deep and dark lines present there that make him look old, almost frail.

Once recovered from the initial shock, Scott is pleased to have the captain in his presence.

"'Allo, cap'n!"

Scott proffers the flask of scotch to his captain with both hands. After a beat he suddenly withdraws it and regards the captain with an exaggerated glance out of the corners of his eyes. "You ain't 'posed to be here."

Kirk shrugs one shoulder, offers a smirk. "Don't tell Bones."

Scott seems to find the prospect of subterfuge extremely entertaining. He chuckles in spite of himself. "He's gonna kill you if'n he finds out."

Kirk rolls his eyes. "Scotty, I busted my ass to get up here. Oblige me a little, will ya?"

The engineer regards his captain's face. A pertinent thought manages to penetrate the haze. "You sure you're 'posed to—?"

"Scotty, give me some alcohol, and that's an order!"

Scott heaves his shoulders in a defeated sigh. "Fine, but I amn't takin' the heat for this one."

Kirk remains utterly silent, his eyes fixed on the chief engineer. Scott shoves the flask in his direction with a mumbled curse. The captain takes a moderate drink, hands it back to Scott. The engineer stares at the flask with the faint notion in the back of his mind that he may have just committed a grievous offense and decides to drown the idea with a long drink. His face falls flat, however, after his attempt comes up short. He turns the flask upside down to find it completely empty.

"Ay, cap'n?"

Kirk looks up. "Yeah, Scotty?"

"Ye drank the rest of me scotch."

Kirk tries unsuccessfully to hide his amusement. "Consider it reimbursement for my troubles."

"Oh. I ah—" Mr. Scott looks about himself exaggeratedly, as if searching for inspiration in the walls. "M'sorry for what happened with the transporter." He speaks the sentence with so much animation that Kirk is afraid he may fall over with the effort.

"Yeah, about that." Kirk holds the dramatic pause for a breath before he reaches out to smack the engineer on the shoulder, though the normally robust gesture comes off only half-hearted. The smile on his face betrays his words. "What the hell happened there, Scotty?"

The blow, however gentle, nearly unseats Mr. Scott, who sways back and forth dangerously afterwards. "How am I 'posed to know there was a cliff there? Do I look like a carta. . . cartogra . . . cartographist?"

"Cartographer, sir," Chekov offers smartly.

Scott looks over his shoulder, lifts the empty flask in approval. "Aye! That!"

Kirk laughs dryly. "I assure you, Scotty, what happened during transport was the _least_ of our problems."

The engineer has his eyes squinted shut as if bracing for verbal lashing. It takes him a moment to detect the lack of anger from the other side of the room. "Wha? Really now?"

"Oh yeah, yeah. Tell him, Chekov."

The ensign jumps. "Me, sir?"

"Yes, you." Kirk narrows his eyes, puts on his best dramatic expression.

Chekov stares blankly at his captain. A glance over at Scott shows the engineer is leaning forward very close to the ensign, his eyes wide with expectation. "Er... okay, sir."

The young ensign begins to recount to the engineer the events that transpired against the hostile alien creature and, however exaggerated the account may be, Kirk feigns ignorance. He decides to let Chekov take the glory for this one and listens to the Russian's riveting account with genuine interest.

". . . And I was hanging onto its head and I took the phaser and put it to the lizard's eye at shot it clean off!" The ensign beams proudly and hastily adds: "Sir."

"No!" Scott claps the ensign on the shoulder with a heavy hand; the impact nearly jars the ensign from his seat. "That's amazing!" After a beat he narrows his eyes and tries his most sober expression. "Ye sure it really happened thataway?"

"Yes, sir." Chekov squares his shoulders. "That lizard never stood a chance!"

Scott is doubled over in laughter in the inexplicable mirth that only spirits can provide. He reaches up to slap the ensign on the knee and mutters from somewhere in the vicinity of the floor: "I dinnae think he did, laddie!" Chekov is brimming with pride and liquid courage. They make an interesting team, two brilliant minds that in another life would probably not be speaking the same language, let alone sharing the same alcohol. It makes the agony of his journey from medical bay, as irresponsible and foolish as he knows it is, worth every drop of sweat and every ounce of pain. Kirk decides he would not have things any other way, even if it includes an engineer that beams him off the side of cliffs and an ensign that, somehow, knows how to incapacitate alien lizards. Kirk makes a mental note not to let Chekov one-up him in that department again.

The laughter from his comrades suddenly stops at the sound of very authoritative footsteps. Chekov's eyes become very wide indeed, and Scott attempts a sarcastic salute that merely results in nearly slapping himself in the face. Kirk can discern the identity of the suddenly looming presence at his back merely from their reactions. He does not need the resounding curse that follows to tell him that his evening is fated to turn very bad, indeed. For the doctor is armed with a hypospray and a forthright air and has no qualms against using either. . .

"Dammit, Jim!"

_Fin._


End file.
